


One Word Silence

by endlessnepenthe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, First Kiss, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, they're idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:14:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26270041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessnepenthe/pseuds/endlessnepenthe
Summary: Dean shakes his head, releasing Castiel to stumble away and turn his back. “Get out.” He waits for the door to open, waits for the rustle of wings... Waits for Castiel to leave.But Castiel stays.Or, 3 times Castiel and Dean don't talk about it, and the 1 time they (kind of) do.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 142





	One Word Silence

**Author's Note:**

> [Continuation of](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26065402/chapters/63805810)

The first time, it’s because of a spell.

Dean holds it off until it burns bright as a supernova inside him and he excuses himself to the diner restroom, locking the dirty, wobbly door behind him. But the spell won’t be satisfied by masturbation, and Castiel takes it upon himself to give Dean a hand.

Not literally, apparently, because Castiel lowers himself to his knees in front of Dean — _one of the Lord’s angels, kneeling as if in penance on a filthy restroom floor, at the feet of a human man; it’s literal blasphemy, the worst sin ever possible_ — and brushes his fingers over Dean’s belt loops, blue eyed gaze serious and calm as ever. Dean can’t draw breath for protest, so Castiel slowly unbuckles Dean’s belt, pops the button and unzips his fly with sure, deft movements of those elegant fingers.

The first brush of Castiel’s tongue, curious, has Dean tossing his head back against the stall wall, nearly biting through his own tongue with how quickly he has to snap his jaw shut. He presses a palm to cold, painted steel, the other to his mouth, muffling his soft gasp as Castiel explores his length with warm, gentle fingertips.

 _Don’t be a tease,_ Dean can’t say. If he were to open his mouth, the dam would break.

Castiel, to Dean’s inevitable relief, seems to understand the urgency of the situation. The angel — on his knees, dark head bowed to a man — licks his lips, opens his mouth, and takes Dean in one smooth, hot slide.

Thighs trembling, Dean sinks his teeth into his palm, arching his back and choking on a cut off groan when Castiel swallows, his throat squeezing around Dean. No gag reflex at all, _Jesus fuckin’ Christ—_

Huffing a hum, Castiel stares sternly upward — _don’t be blasphemous, Dean_ — and the sight of those pink lips, slick and stretched wide, nearly brings Dean to his knees. For an angel who’s never done any sort of _cloud seeding_ in his time, Castiel works Dean easily; taking him up so high he sees stars, so fast his head spins. And for someone who’s profusely adamant about _no teeth near the goods,_ Dean ends up losing himself when Castiel brings in a careful touch of his teeth, the brief caress of suggested danger shoving Dean bodily over the edge.

Ridiculously unruffled, Castiel holds still while Dean shakes, swallowing everything Dean gives him. He licks Dean clean and tucks him neatly back into his pants, brushing the backs of his knuckles almost possessively over the soft bulge as he buckles Dean’s belt. Then Castiel smiles, small and pleased, and if Dean didn’t just have his brain turned into mush, he would’ve kissed those lips to see if that smile would grow.

+

The second time, it’s all Dean.

Dean, who drags himself into Baby’s backseat after Castiel. Dean, who shoves at a yielding angel until he’s pushed up against the opposite door, body turned awkwardly towards Dean in the bench seat. Dean, who fumbles with the slacks Castiel’s wearing.

He doesn’t look up, afraid to see… Afraid to see what? Certainly not pity, for Castiel would never pity him. Perhaps he foolishly thought, if he didn’t meet them with his own, those eyes couldn’t see into him.

But Dean knows he can’t hide, knows his actions are screaming far louder than any words he could utter. He can’t help himself.

His hands shake when he finally gets those wretched pants open. _You scared me._ Dean sinks to his knees, as much as he is able in the given legroom behind the front seat, his body awkwardly wedged in the little space. It’s fine. He wants to feel something — anything — besides the panic lighting up his senses. _I can’t lose you._

Despite not actually needing to breathe, Castiel’s breaths sink heavy as Dean slowly bobs his head, giving himself time to adjust to Castiel’s length on his tongue. Castiel’s thigh tenses under Dean’s hand when Dean eases himself lower, sinking just shy of gagging.

“Dean,” Castiel gasps, breathless and awe filled and nearly a prayer.

Dean hums quietly in encouragement, nearly subvocal, and finally grants himself the permission to blink up at Castiel through damp lashes. His angel is positively _disheveled:_ delightfully messy dark hair more wild than usual, jaw and face slack, collar unbuttoned to expose his throat, hands curled into fists next to his spread legs— And, when Dean meets Castiel’s eyes, they dilate impossibly further right in front of him, beautiful blue thinning into narrow rings surrounding black.

Captivated by the sight of a usually calm and unruffled Castiel tearing at the seams, Dean can’t look away, even as he hums a little louder, pressing his fingertips into Castiel’s thigh — _c’mon, I got you_ — and Castiel shakes apart with a tiny, shocked sound. Dean takes his time licking Castiel clean, zipping up his fly and buckling his belt with great care.

 _Let’s go, Sam’s waiting,_ he doesn’t say. He also doesn’t look at Castiel, but a warm hand on the side of his face stops him in the act of scooting out the car. Dean closes his eyes against the cool rush of grace easing the ache in his jaw.

“...Thanks.”

Castiel smiles the same small smile.

+

The third time, it’s in the heat of the moment, stubbornness redirected.

Dean had gone to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face and consider swallowing an Advil for the residual aches in his limbs, resolutely against the very idea of popping a pill in front of Castiel for a reason he refuses to look too closely at. Castiel, far too perceptive for Dean’s sake, simply turns the doorknob — _son of a bitch,_ how had he forgotten to lock the door — and joins Dean in the bathroom, expression stormy.

“Dean,” Castiel starts, shutting the door behind him. The quiet _click_ of the lock sends a shiver down Dean’s spine.

“No, Cas.” _You’ve already spent enough mojo smitin’ those vamps._

 _“Dean,”_ Castiel repeats, a little more _angel soldier_ force in his tone, and _damn_ if that doesn’t make Dean want to kneel at his feet. “You’re hurting,” he says, softer, almost pleading, “I can fix that.”

Dean closes the breath of distance between them, curling his fingers around Castiel’s backward tie. “No need,” he murmurs, sliding his other hand southward, their mouths so close he could breathe in Castiel’s sharp exhale.

Castiel, never one to be outdone, snakes one of his own hands down just as Dean’s about to sink to his knees. Gasping, Dean knocks his forehead against Castiel’s, hips bucking forward against the firm warmth of Castiel’s palm.

“Dean,” Castiel breathes, at once a discovery and a revelation, hot and damp in the small space separating their lips.

Dean sighs in return, a growl catching in the back of his throat when Castiel gently bats his hand away. “Cas.”

The first slide is _glorious,_ punching identical groans from them both. Then, it’s not so great — a touch too dry, too much friction — but Castiel slips a loose hand up their combined lengths, his palm and fingers slick on the downstroke, smearing precome to ease the way, and Dean’s jaw falls slack with a moan he refuses to lend his voice to.

When they tumble over the precipice of pleasure, Castiel spilling first between his fingers with a low moan that will haunt Dean for _weeks,_ Dean very nearly has his knees buckle beneath him. The slap of his palm against the sink counter startles their gazes into meeting, cheeks flushed hot and pupils blown, until Castiel glances away to drag a curious tongue over his hand.

Dean longs to kiss their combined taste off Castiel’s lips. Instead, he digs his nails into his palm. The ache of his bruised body doesn’t seem to matter so much anymore as he watches Castiel leave the bathroom.

Neither of them say a word when Sam returns to the motel room with burgers, ten minutes later.

+

The fourth time, it’s after months of tension, enough for Sam to have already taken _multiple_ entire day solo trips out of the bunker and return exponentially more frustrated each time nothing changes.

Dean pads into the kitchen — footsteps muffled by warm slippers — and makes a beeline for the fridge, intent on getting himself a nice, cold beer. He nearly drops the damn thing when he turns around and spots Castiel sitting at the table, hands curved around a steaming mug of coffee.

Heart pounding behind his ribs, Dean only just barely holds back his irritated scowl by busying himself with twisting the cap off the bottle in his hands. _Still gotta get ‘im a bell._ “You seen Sam,” Dean bites out, raising his beer to his lips the instant he’s finished speaking.

“He said he was going to the store,” Castiel says, utterly unfazed by Dean’s clipped tone. Over the end of the bottle, Dean watches Castiel’s eyes track his throat as he swallows.

When Dean makes his way back to his room, he has a silent shadow. Somehow, somewhere, he’d lost the beer. But that’s alright; there’s enough sitting in his stomach to make him looser, more careless. “Why’d you follow me.”

Castiel doesn’t respond, only stares at Dean. His gaze seems to say, _You wanted me to, so I did._

Heart pounding in his ears, alcohol muffling his rational thoughts just enough for recklessness, Dean fists a hand in Castiel’s coat lapel, shoving Castiel up against his bedroom door as he shuts it. Castiel moves easily, pink lips parting slightly when his back hits the door, and Dean’s eyes immediately drop. For a long, suspended moment, he wants nothing more than to lick the remaining taste of bitter coffee from Castiel’s mouth.

 _No. You can’t._ Dean shakes his head, releasing Castiel to stumble away and turn his back. “Get out.” He waits for the door to open, waits for the rustle of wings... Waits for Castiel to leave.

But Castiel stays. “Dean,” Castiel murmurs, a little bit shaky, a little bit longing.

 _Leave,_ Dean thinks, even as the rest of him pleads, _Stay._

The doorknob clicks almost silently when it turns, and Dean panics. “Don’t,” he blurts, whirling around. Castiel stops.

He hasn’t had enough alcohol to make him truly fearless and uncaring of consequences, but it’s been months of watching from afar, and Dean’s had enough. Even if it’s going to be the only one he’ll ever get, he still closes the distance between them and grabs Castiel’s tie— Still tugs Castiel forward to meet him in the middle, still presses the _stay_ to Castiel’s lips with his own. He’s goddamn _dreamed_ about this for Crissake, and those lips are every bit as soft as he’s always imagined.

When it’s over — so fast, too fast — and rejection stabs at Dean’s heart, he breathes a shaky exhale and bows his head, furiously blinking back tears. He isn’t gonna cry, okay? Dean Winchester ain’t weak enough to _cry_ over a kiss. _Would you shed tears for that being the last one,_ something poisonous in him whispers, and despite his efforts, his eyes fill.

But warm hands cradle his face, gently tilting his chin up. Castiel kisses him slowly, hesitant, and Dean’s eyes widen before falling shut, his tears slipping out from under damp lashes.

“Dean,” Castiel whispers, his blue eyes suspiciously damp as he brushes their lips together in another tender kiss. “Please don’t cry.” He kisses Dean’s cheek, right over the wet trail his tear had traced down his face, all sappy and chick flick-y and—

And then he _licks_ Dean’s face.

Wincing, Dean slaps a hand over Castiel’s mouth, weak laughter bubbling up in his chest. “Dude,” he definitely doesn’t _giggle_ (it’s a very manly chuckle, thank you very much), “don’t lick my face, that’s gross.”

Castiel only smiles, ridiculously satisfied, and kisses Dean’s palm.

“C’mere,” Dean grumbles, closing a hand around Castiel’s tie again to yank him close for a rough kiss that only escalates as Dean gasps into Castiel’s mouth, scrabbling at his trench coat and suit jacket until Castiel starts removing them for Dean. _“Fuck,”_ Dean pants against Castiel’s lips when finally gets his hands on Castiel’s bare torso.

“If you want,” Castiel rumbles as he steps out of his slacks, the lock on Dean’s door flipping home without any preamble.

Every nerve in Dean’s body lights up and he shudders in Castiel’s arms, his blood flooding south faster than he could even think to agree. “Bed,” he manages to gasp between lip bruising kisses, whining a startled noise when Castiel simply slides strong hands under his thighs and _lifts._

Castiel bears Dean’s weight without any difficulties, walking smoothly to the bed and depositing Dean carefully on top of the sheets. Dean gapes up at Castiel, his brain properly fried by the display of strength, his jeans far too tight for how aroused he is. Almost concerned, Castiel kicks his shoes off, crawling towards Dean to kiss him once more.

The next few minutes pass in a blur for Dean; he sighs and whimpers while Castiel bestows hot, open mouthed kisses down his chest — when had he taken off his shirt, Dean doesn’t know — and leisurely removes the rest of Dean’s clothes, deliberate like he’s unwrapping a present. By the time Castiel’s nipping at the sensitive flesh high on Dean’s inner thighs, Dean’s squirming restlessly, whining softly as he pulls feebly at the sheets.

“Cas—”

Leaning up to silence him with a kiss, Castiel licks into Dean’s slack mouth, easy and purposeful like he’s belonged there all along. He brushes his fingertips up the side of Dean’s hip, purposefully ignoring where Dean’s hard and aching. Dean might just die of frustration.

_“Cas—”_

Castiel, the _infuriating_ angel, only hums serenely, pressing a kiss to Dean’s jaw. “Patience,” he purrs.

Dean growls, bucking up against Castiel. _“I’ve been patient for forever, Castiel, I swear”_ — a dangerous warning rumbles in Castiel’s throat — _“if you don’t fuck me right now—”_ His words melt into a low, helpless moan as Castiel strokes him in a loose fist, nipping up the side of his throat. “Cas, _ah—_ Drawer—”

Releasing Dean with an apologetic kiss, Castiel reaches over to retrieve the bottle of lube from the nightstand. Dean — beautiful, lovely Dean — lets his legs fall open around Castiel’s knees, his blush dusting his freckled cheeks a rosy pink.

Castiel watches on in awe as Dean opens up so wonderfully for his fingers, back arched and head tossed back against the pillow in pleasure. He could do this forever, never tire of seeing Dean writhing in ecstasy because of _Cas._

“C’mon,” Dean groans, “I’m good; Cas, c’mon.” His nails dig into Castiel’s shoulders when Castiel _slowly,_ inch by inch, pushes his hips forward until he’s surrounded by Dean.

Every thrust rocks the bed, punching breathless little moans from Dean even while they kiss, sloppy and proportionally more uncoordinated as they near their orgasms. Dean spills first across his stomach with a cut off whimper, the way he shudders and clenches and gasps _Cas, Cas_ pushing Castiel over the edge as well.

They’re squeezed together on a narrow bed not meant for two grown men, his sweaty skin tacky where it’s pressed to Castiel and one of his legs is falling asleep under Castiel’s weight, but in this moment, Dean’s far more content than he’s ever been in years.

If only he’d gotten his head out of his ass earlier, _tried_ instead of letting the fear of failure root him to the spot.

Castiel props himself up on an elbow and kisses Dean, soft and sweet. For a moment, he looks almost like he wants to speak, but he only smiles that small smile, resting a hand on the meat of Dean’s shoulder, perfectly aligned with where his handprint had once been.

Dean kisses Castiel in return, Castiel’s stubble scratchy under his palm. Maybe one day, he’ll find the courage to tell Castiel to _stay._


End file.
